


Deleted Scene 2

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [11]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver does something stupid. Cullen takes him to task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deleted Scene 2

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second of the "deleted scene" stories that I wrote in an attempt to get the boys married. This one would've taken place after "Silence Part 1", if I'd kept it.

     It was not, precisely, that Carver had been _avoiding_ the issue.  He'd just decided not to think about it.  That was all.

     "Oh," said Cullen, squinting into the mirror as he gave his beard a final edging.  "I almost forgot.  Bran said you hadn't responded yet to a letter he sent you some while back.  He said the matter was time-sensitive; did you mislay it?"

     Carver was thus forced to look at Cullen.  He hated to watch while Cullen was shaving, especially if Cullen _talked_ while shaving, because Cullen's hands were none too precise these days and he got careless when he was distracted.  At least he wasn't carving himself bloody _quite_ as often.  He was improving, just slowly. 

     But the fact that Carver was now on tenterhooks, braced for the sight of Cullen's blood and desperately fighting the urge to lunge forward and snatch the straight razor from his hand, did nothing to help his mood.

     "I saw it," Carver replied, stifling a scowl.  There'd been no reason for Bran to mention The Letter to Cullen, except possibly to irritate Carver.  Carver was quite certain Bran spent an undue amount of time considering all the best ways to annoy everyone he knew.  "Just haven't gotten back to him yet."

     "Ah."  He was being careful, Carver saw.  Indeed, Cullen fell silent for a moment as he concentrated on lining the hair along his upper lip.  He was silent for so long that Carver rather hoped he'd forgotten the matter -- which was good, because Carver had begun to distract himself from worrying by looking at Cullen's arse.  Cullen had such a lovely arse, solid and rounded with muscle, and the Knight Commander skirt and tassets accentuated it perfectly.  Carver approved highly of that arse.  He had taken a step closer, wondering if they had time for a bit of grind before muster, when Cullen shook off the razor and smiled into the mirror in a pleased sort of way.  "You may relax, my knight; no blood today."

     Carver flinched a bit, looking away.  "I wasn't worried."

     "Of course you weren't."  Cullen rinsed the razor.  "Anyhow, do respond to Bran soon, Carver; when you don't, you give him an excuse to make snide remarks about you.  In front of me.  And as I do not wish to see _another_ Viscount beheaded, particularly by my own hand, you place me in the difficult position of having to hold my temper."

     Carver sighed.  There was nothing to be done for it.  And if he didn't deal with the issue soon, things would only get worse.  "Right.  Yeah.  All right."

     Cullen lifted an eyebrow at his grumbling, then wiped his face with a towel and came over.  "Well?  Do I pass inspection?"  He lifted his chin.

     Carver could not help grinning.  "Better not ask me.  I was just thinking about how to muss you."  But he did take the tacit invitation, stepping closer and cupping Cullen's face in his hands.  Here was everything he wanted of life -- all of it, from the smell of shaving-lotion to the weight of Cullen's jaw, even those perpetually-tired eyes and the smile that had been edged with sadness far too often, lately.

     And that was his fault, wasn't it?  He was Cullen's knight, his sword and shield, and it was his job to keep the shadows at bay.  He sobered, hating himself and knowing that once again he was about to fail.

     But now Cullen was frowning at him, sharp eyes missing nothing, so Carver quickly pushed those thoughts to the rear of his mind and pasted on a smile.

     "You're gorgeous, and you know it," he said, and kissed Cullen goodbye.

#

     And then he skived off work.

     It wasn't that he'd set out to do so.  He wouldn't, ordinarily.  Cullen had enough to worry about, so Carver always tried to make sure the Gallows didn't become another burden for him.  That meant being organized, even though it made his arse hurt to be so fucking meticulous.  And he tried to stay on top of his paperwork, even when it took everything he had not to fall asleep over yet another supply requisition or readiness evaluation.  The rest of his job was easy, and he liked it -- training recruits, meeting with the First Enchanter to make sure the mages had what they needed, making sure the apprentices were shaping up.  He got through the parts he hated by thinking of Cullen.

     But it was this thought -- of Cullen, of that damned Letter, of what it fucking _meant_ for Cullen and him -- that made Carver stop in the hallway before his own office door, and stand there with bile in his mouth and sweat on his palms and nothing but a blank space behind his eyes.  He couldn't do paperwork now.  He couldn't bloody _think_.

     So he turned, and went to the office of his secretary, and told the man he was sick and to cancel all his appointments for the day.  Then he went for a walk.

     No part of Kirkwall appealed to Carver.  Even after ten years in the city, he hadn't gotten used to the incessant background murmur of voices, the stench of sewage and rotting fish, the ever-present rumble beneath his feet as Kirkwall's foundries churned day and night.  He would never think of himself as a Kirkwaller, no matter how much people went on about the Amell family or how much blood he spilled defending this squalid heap that called itself a city.  He would never stop craving open fields and quiet, or a sere blue sky with only hills to limit it.  He missed the sound of dogs barking, and voices laughing without that cynical edge that even city children seemed to possess.  He missed _Ferelden_ , barbarians and dogshit and all, and if not for Cullen, he would have long since gone back there.

     The only place in the city where Carver felt anything close to peace was the Docks, ironically enough.  When he stepped far enough out onto one of the jetties, he could angle himself so as not to see the city, or the billowing foundry smoke, or the tattered sailboats and sketchy-looking frigates -- or were those galleons? He could never get that straight -- that were probably bringing in another batch of pirates for shore leave.  Then he could see only the sky, and the mountains.  Then he would hear only the ocean, and its sough and sussuruss were enough like the sounds of wind across a grassplain that for a few moments, at least, he could forget.

     That his mother was dead, murdered by madness.  That his father and sister were gone too, the former too young, the latter too cruelly.  That his brother, Maker tangle the fucker's beard, was off playing hero demons-knew-where -- or perhaps just trying to survive in a land that had suddenly committed itself to genocide with remarkable enthusiasm.  All Carver had left after so much loss was a house his mother had spent her last years trying to gain for them, and Cullen.

     And now to have to choose between them --

     So caught up was Carver in maundering that he almost didn't notice the blokes gathering on the pier behind him.  He did, of course, because they weren't particularly good at this sort of thing; their motley armor clanked against itself, and apparently it had never occurred to any of them that drawing swords on a sunny day would alert their quarry with a dozen bright flashes of reflected sunlight.  They might as well have hired a mage to write LOOK HERE WE ARE in fire above their heads.

     Cullen, Carver thought pityingly as he turned to face them, wouldn't even have thought them worth training.

     "Here, gents," Carver said, though there were a couple of women in there too, one with twin knives and the other with a two-hander.  "And ladies.  Can I help you, or are you just looking for someone to knock the dents out of those tin pot-lids you're wearing?"

     The woman with the two-hander, who had a curling scar down one side of her face, scowled at him.  The man at the front of the gathering -- though there were ten or twelve of them, and they all looked equally like shit so it was hard to tell if he was actually in charge or just mouthy -- smirked.  "Sure, you can help us," he said.  "Come along quietly, Knight Captain Carver Hawke, and we won't have to cut you any before we hand you over for the bounty."

     Carver made a show of considering, folding his arms.  "Well, how much is the bounty?"

     "You can't buy your way out of this, _nobleman_."

     It was always so strange to hear people refer to him that way. 

     "Wasn't gonna try," Carver said, with a snort of derision.  "Just wanted to know if my bounty's higher than my brother's.  Is it?"

     Several of the self-appointed bounty hunters looked at each other.  "Nah, I think you're about a hundred sovereigns lower," said one, helpfully.

     Andraste's knickerweasels.  Carver scowled and reached back to unhitch his sword.  "Gonna have to kill you lot, then.  Maybe that'll make 'em up the bounty to something decent."

#

     He'd killed about half of them before someone shot him in the leg.

     It had been stupid of them to attack Carver on a jetty anyway.  They could only come at him one at a time, so he made short work of each and either tossed the bodies into the water or threw them back against their oncoming comrades to foul them.  But when the arrow came, it pinned the skirt of his robe to the jetty's old wood -- and went through the meat of his calf, much to his fury.  He fucking _hated_ archers.

     After that things went rapidly bad.  He could still peg anyone who got close enough, but he couldn't move enough to really be effective, and another arrow whizzed past his face in between one swing and the next.  "Don't kill him, you fool!" he heard one of the brigands say to the archer, but then another arrow shot past where his neck would've been if he hadn't lunged forward to stab the knife-woman, so maybe the archer just had piss-poor aim.  Still, he was beginning to worry --

     -- and then, out of nowhere, what looked like a million and a half arrows came down from the sky, killing everyone but him in seconds.

     As Carver stood there gape-mouthed, sword hanging loose in one hand, Varric Tethras strolled out of the alley next to the pier.

     "Little Hawke," he said amiably.  "You _do_ know this is going to get back to your brother, right?  I imagine a sternly-worded letter in your future."

     Fuck.

     Carver knelt and broke off the head of the arrow stuck through his leg, then grimaced and yanked the shaft loose; _Maker_ , that hurt.  But it didn't seem to have nicked any major arteries, so maybe he could make it back to the Gallows and have a spirit healer see to it before Cullen got back.  "Thanks," he said, reluctantly, as he limped down the jetty.  "Do me a favor and don't embellish it any, though, will you?  If he thinks I was taking on an army or something, he's going to have a dog."

     "Well," said Varric, looking around pointedly, and Carver realized there were more than twenty bodies on the quay and floating around the jetty; more of them must've shown up as the fight wore on.  "I don't think any embellishment will be necessary, but we'll have to see what the story demands.  Any reason you were out here alone, making such a nice ambush-target of yourself?"

     "Fishing for more story-details?"  Carver scowled.

     "Always." Varric smiled.  "Though of course if you don't want to share, I'm happy to make something up.  Let's see:  perhaps you were feeling a bit lonely and inadequate without your brother here to -- "

     " _Sod_ that, Varric."

     "Yeah, that one doesn't quite work anymore.  Maybe it would go over better if I painted you as a romantic hero, in the popular sense?"  Varric folded his arms, contemplative.  "I've heard a few stories about Kirkwall's dashing Knight Commander and his brave, devoted Knight Captain, who stand together against the evils of war -- "

     Carver groaned.  "Oh, bloody _Void_ , you wouldn't!"

     "So maybe you had a lovers' quarrel, and harsh things were said as they always are in such situations, and even as you stood at the Docks contemplating suicide, Cullen was charging this way to apologize -- "

     " _Not_ to apologize, I think," said Cullen as he stepped out onto the quay with ten Templars and what looked like half the Guard at his back.  Carver's stomach turned to lead at the look on Cullen's face.  "And harsh things have not _begun_ to be said, Messere Tethras."

     Varric's eyebrows rose into his hairline, and Carver was grateful at least that the dwarf didn't immediately whip out a piece of parchment for notetaking.  Varric inclined his head to Cullen politely.  "Knight Commander.  I was wondering when you'd realize you'd misplaced something."

     "Yes.  And you have my sincere thanks for making sure I've found my Knight Captain in one piece." Cullen inclined his head to Varric, who made a flourishing and just-this-side-of-mocking bow in return.

     "Uh," said Carver, sheathing his sword and trying not to hunch his shoulders.  "I didn't -- "

     "Not a word," said Cullen, and though his tone was mild, the glare that he threw at Carver struck him hard as a Smite.  "We will discuss this back at the Gallows, Knight Captain.  Though I will say publicly that my disappointment in you for this... _incident_... is extreme."

     _Oh, Maker, he's really pissed off._   Carver's mouth went dry of spit, which was fortunate, as Cullen had commanded him not to speak.  He managed a nod with a jerky semblance of dignity, and then he limped over to join Cullen's party, where one of the knights helpfully moved aside to make room for him in the formation.

     He didn't look at Varric as they marched away, but he could almost feel the dwarf's tight-held laughter like a pressure against the back of his neck.

#

     "No," Cullen snapped, as soon as he closed the door to his office.  Carver had snapped to attention at the center of the room, as he did whenever he made a formal report.  "You will _not_ retreat behind protocol now; at _bloody_ ease, and be glad that I am too much the gentleman to hit you."

     So Carver tried to relax, though this was difficult with Cullen pacing in a circle around him, like a mabari considering the right angle for a bite.  "Cullen, I just didn't -- "

     " _What possessed you?_ "  Cullen rounded on him, getting in his face.  "You _know_ what will happen if the Inquisition, or the Black Feathers, or any of various other _violent fanatics_ get their hands on you.  You have been even more a marked man than me since the start of this war, as the Champion's brother -- "

     "Not more than you," Carver attempted to protest.  "Not since the Declaration -- "

     "Which is a distinction that gives me _great bloody comfort_ , I can tell you!"

     Two "bloodys" in the space of a minute.  Cullen was getting angrier, not calmer.  Carver spoke quickly to head him off before he burst something.  "I didn't mean it.  I just, I wasn't thinking, is all.  I needed to clear my head, and... and that's where I used to go, back before I was Knight Captain.  That's all."

     "And consider yourself blessed," Cullen said, "that it was once my duty to have you followed about the city, back in the days when Meredith suspected you of acting in collusion with your brother.  When I returned to the Gallows and heard that you were 'ill', and further that you had been seen catching the ferry and wandering off alone, that is the only reason I thought to search here.  If Messere Tethras had not come to save you -- "

     " _Save_ me?  I was fine!"

     Cullen stabbed a finger toward his leg in tight-lipped accusation.

     "Well, yeah, they tagged me, but you know it takes more than this to take me down, Cullen -- "

     "Does it?"  As if his anger demanded a physical outlet, Cullen began to pace again, relentlessly.  "Would it take more, if that arrow had been poisoned?  If they'd had a better archer?"

     He was making an uncomfortable amount of sense.  "Look, I'm sorry, all right?"  In frustration Carver tried to step closer to him, then winced as the injured leg tried to cramp.  "It's not like I _wanted_ you to worry.  I was hoping you wouldn't notice I was gone, in fact."

     Cullen stopped and turned to him, eyes narrowing, and belatedly Carver realized he'd just made things much, much worse.

     "Why?"

     Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.  "I told you, I, I didn't want you to -- "

     "I think you have tried to deceive me quite enough already, Carver."  And Carver flinched, because that hurt.  A lot.  Because he deserved it.  And worst of all, Cullen had said it quietly enough that Carver could hear the hurt in his voice.  "Answer my question.  Why did you do this?  Abandon your duties, wander off to get yourself killed, and hide it from me?  What is it that's troubled you so, these last few days?  I did think you uncommonly moody, but I assumed you would talk to me about it when you were ready.  Not do... this."

     "I -- "  Carver had never been good at lying.  When they'd been children, Bethany had always done the talking when they got in trouble, because people actually believed her.  But this --  Shit, he couldn't --  "I can't.  I, I don't.  Want to tell you."

     He saw the blow of that strike Cullen, and died a little inside.

     "Very well," Cullen said, after a moment.  "I cannot force you to talk to me.  And I have no wish to force you, for that would be an abrogation of the trust between us.  What little there seems to be."

     Oh, Maker, he was the worst person in Thedas.  "Cullen.  I..."

     "I am not certain I want to hear anything more from you today, Carver."  And now Cullen wasn't looking at him.  His face was still turned toward Carver, but his eyes had focused somewhere beyond him, as if Carver wasn't there.  "I am not certain when I will want to hear from you again, really."

     No.  "Cullen," he said, and then he had to stop, because his throat hurt.  His chest hurt.  His leg hurt, and none of it was as bad as the look on Cullen's face.

     Cullen stood and turned to the window, folding his hands behind his back, and that was that.  Carver might as well have left the room.

     So Carver did go, though every step felt like climbing a mountain and his mind was blank, utterly blank, as he tried desperately to think up words that might somehow un-inflict the hurt he'd seen in Cullen's face.  But he could think of nothing, because he had never been good with words... or maybe just because there was nothing to be said.

#

     He slept in his own quarters that night, after getting his leg fixed by one of the apprentice healers.  Some of the Tranquil had kept the room neat, freshening the sheets every so often and sweeping out dust, but it still felt like the room of a stranger.  It was cold, too, since no one had laid in wood for a fire.  He'd been with Cullen for the better part of two years now, living with him for the latter half of that.  Most of his belongings were in the suite, but he couldn't bear to go back there now.

     By morning, however, Carver's mouth was full of sand and his eyes hurt, and his whole body felt like it had been methodically beaten.  He hadn't slept at all.  And he knew, finally, that he could endure this no longer.  Better that Cullen know the truth than think Carver no longer trusted him.

     No matter how terrible the truth was.

     It was their rest day, which had only added weight to Carver's decision.  On a normal day he could lose himself in routine and the problems of the Gallows, but most rest days he spent with Cullen, talking to him or touching him or just being with him, and the prospect of a day alone yawned like a chasm.  So Carver bathed and dressed in a set of casual clothes he'd forgotten he owned, and swept a hand over his hair in lieu of a proper toilette, and went to face his fate.

     He knocked, unnecessarily, at the door.  He had a key.  But it seemed... inappropriate, to just barge in like he had a right to, after what he'd done.

     After a moment Cullen opened the door.  He looked -- well, he always looked tired.  But now it wasn't just his eyes; Carver could see deeper lines around his mouth, a slump to his shoulders that spoke of bone-deep weariness.

     And wariness.  "Carver," he said, neutrally.

     "Please," Carver blurted.  "Please, I -- I want to tell you everything."

     He waited, heart in mouth, while Cullen plainly considered whether he wanted to hear this.  Then with a soft sigh, Cullen stepped aside for Carver to enter.

     "The letter," Carver said, as soon as Cullen had shut the door.  He made himself say it, rushed through the telling, because otherwise he would say nothing and things would just keep getting more broken between them.  "The damned letter, from Bran."

     He darted a look at Cullen, and saw understanding replace the confusion that had been on his face.  "The letter he asked you to respond to?"

     Carver nodded miserably, then reached into his pocket and pulled the thing out, much-creased and tatty from hours of his fretting.  He hesitated, but Cullen had a right to know the full horror of the situation.  So he handed it over and closed his eyes, seeing the words again as if burned into his eyelids:

> _Ser Carver,_
> 
> _I am given to understand by my seneschal that you failed to attend the reading of your mother's will, despite ample notification.  I will make no presumption upon your intentions -- perhaps you simply forgot -- but I felt compelled to write to you in light of our long association, and so that your commander will again owe me a favor._
> 
> _As your brother has been absent from Kirkwall for more than one year and one day, the Amell estate has been legally declared abandoned.  You stand next in line to inherit -- but I am obligated by law to enforce your mother's will, and therefore I cannot grant you the title until you have at least begun to fulfill her wishes._
> 
> _Your mother writes in the will of her wish that the Amell line continue, no matter what name it now carries.  Therefore she requires that anyone who inherits the estate must marry and take steps to produce issue within five years.  Failing this, the house will revert to the stewardship of the Viscount's office._
> 
> _I do not_ want _an estate, Knight Captain, let alone your brother's estate.  Knowing the Champion and the company he kept, I can only imagine what manner of excess must have taken place within those walls.  And it is likely to smell like dog.  Therefore, please attend to this matter forthwith.  You have one month._
> 
> _Bran_

     There was silence, for long enough that Cullen could've read the letter five times.  Finally Cullen said, "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

     "Because!"  He wanted to shout.  He wanted Cullen to shout at him -- but no, no, he had to do this the way Cullen needed, because he'd hurt Cullen enough already.  "I know I should let the house go.  I hate that place.  Never spent a night under its roof; Mother gave me a key and I don't even remember where the bloody thing is.  If it were up to me I'd call Gamlen back from Cumberland and give it to him and his daughter, or, or --  anything.  Bran can fucking _have_ it, for all I care.  But..."  He faltered, because this too was undeniable.  "But it meant so much to Mother that Garrett and I have it."

     "Yes."  He heard Cullen fold the letter again.  "You've told me how you and your brother risked your lives getting the will for her, and killing the slavers who took the house from your line.  Obviously you cannot put all that effort to waste, especially when this was her last wish."

     Cullen sounded so calm.  How could he sound so calm? Carver had to pace before he tried to break something.  "Yeah.  Mother's last wish.  But I don't _want_ to marry some woman!" 

     Cullen was staring at him, stricken.  And oh, Maker, there it was.  _Now_ Cullen knew the same rising horror that Carver had felt for the past few weeks, ever since he'd gotten Bran's letter.  _Maker, I'm breaking his heart and my own too_.

     Because Cullen would never tolerate being the piece on the side to Carver's legitimate wife -- no matter how much he loved Carver, and no matter how much Carver _didn't_ love the wife.  Cullen was a good and honorable man.  So Cullen would end it, gently perhaps, and maybe he would have Carver assigned to some other Circle in order to put distance and propriety between them, because he was a devout Andrastean and even the possibility of adultery would repel him.  Cullen would do the right thing, and it would end them forever.

     It was hard to breathe.  His throat was too full of, of everything.  And he couldn't look at Cullen anymore, not if he wanted to keep it together.  He turned away, rubbing his head with his hands and taking deep breaths as he waited for Cullen to tell him it was over.  The very thought filled him with grief.  But Cullen didn't say _anything_ , and the panic built, and finally he broke.

     "For fuck's sake, Cullen!  I thought I could do this and I _can't_."  He was shouting, or maybe sobbing.  "I'll let the house go.  I don't want anyone else, not ever!  Just you!"    

     He heard Cullen sigh and come up behind him.  A moment later hard arms wrapped around him from behind, and he felt the warmth and weight of Cullen against his back.  Which made Carver wonder what he would do, how he could possibly _live_ if he couldn't feel embraces like this anymore, and he moaned aloud with the sudden horrifying conviction that Cullen would do the fucking _noble_ thing and dump him anyway --

     And Cullen murmured into the back of his neck, "Hush, you great sodding fool."

     _What?_   Carver blinked, surprised out of grief.  "Wh-what?"

     Cullen pulled away and turned him 'round and took his hands.  He did not, to Carver's surprise, look either angry or hurt, not anymore.  In fact, Carver could almost have sworn that he looked _amused_.  But there was something else in his gaze too, something warm and fond, that made Carver's heart ache even more.

     "Marry _me_ ," Cullen said.

     "I --  "  Carver blinked in confusion.  "What?"

     "The Chantry," Cullen said, with remarkable gentleness for someone who'd threatened to beat him just the day before, "does not stipulate that the parties in any marriage be of opposite sexes.  And Bran would have said if your mother's will demanded that you take a _wife_ , specifically.  Therefore, you may marry me."  And then, as if he had not just completely tossed Carver's whole world on its arse, Cullen ducked his eyes a little.  "I had been researching the matter already.  There are even precedents for it -- quite a few, if you can credit."

     "But..."  Carver did not want to hope.  Hope hurt too much.  "But Cullen, all that shit about _issue_..."

     "Well, there is no shortage of children in the city needing good homes; it would be a simple enough matter to adopt.  Or if it is needful that the child be specifically of your loins, then we can hire a woman to bear a child for us.  That too has been done before; it is expensive, but you are a nobleman after all, and I have little to spend my own savings on besides you.  There are spells and such that can even allow the act to be done without, er, the act."  He slid his hands up Carver's arms, took his shoulders now, shaking him gently.  "But regardless of where that child comes from, or whose blood it carries, the child would be _ours_ if we marry.  Yours and mine.  I do not know what sort of father I shall be, but -- "  He shrugged a little, abruptly shy.  "I would do my best.  And I am certain that for your own part, you would be as marvelous as Malcolm Hawke was, in raising you and your siblings."

     "But I, I don't want a child," Carver blurted, and Cullen raised his eyebrows.  "I mean.  I never _meant_ to have a child.  It's -- "  He grimaced, then said aloud the thing that had troubled him since puberty, though he'd never admitted it for fear of hurting Garrett or Bethany.  "Any child of mine will probably be a mage, Cullen.  You know that."

     "Ah, Carver."  Cullen cupped his face.  "That is even easier.  Have we not tried to make Kirkwall a place where being born a mage is no curse?  We know the signs to watch for, so that she can be trained properly.  We can make certain that the Gallows is a home to her, a safe place, and nothing to fear."

     _She?_   At once he recalled a memory of Bethany from their childhood, running with pigtails behind her as Carver taunted her over something he could not remember.  She.  A daughter, or perhaps a son; what would that be like?

     Then Carver shook his head, forcing himself back to realism.  "But a mage can't inherit a title, or property."

     "Then we would simply have to have another child."  Cullen smiled.  He actually _smiled_ ; Carver stared at him, disbelieving.  "And another, if we must, until there is one who can inherit.  Bran's letter says only that you 'take steps' to produce issue."  A briefly wry look crossed his face.  "You do not have to endure him as much as I do, Carver; that is Bran-language for 'at least _look like_ you're doing what you're supposed to, so that I may wash my hands of this.'  So we shall marry, and begin interviewing women as potential surrogates, or begin tours of the Chantry orphanage, or both.  That should be sufficient to serve your mother's will."

     It sounded... possible.  Easy.  Real.  Carver frowned, trying to think it through, trying to see the loophole which would make it all impossible and force Cullen to leave him forever, but he couldn't think any farther than _I can marry Cullen_.

     Then Cullen stepped back, and Carver's heart constricted in fear at the stern look on Cullen's face.  "I will not do this just for some house, however," he said.  "I would not profane the bond of marriage.  Tell me that you want _me_ , Carver, beyond your mother's wishes, or -- "

     And he got no further, because Carver fell on him and dragged him close and pressed his forehead against Cullen's hard enough to hurt.  "OhbloodyMakeryesIwantyou.  Yes.  _Fuck_ yes.  I just couldn't think how --  I didn't know what to do --  Oh, Andraste, fucking Void, oh shit please."

     "Well."  Cullen smiled at Carver, a bit lopsidedly; his voice wavered, just a little, though he spoke softly enough that this was probably Carver's imagination.  "That will satisfy, then."

#

     As the end of Bran's month loomed -- in three days, actually, which was what had driven Carver to the Docks to brood in the first place -- Cullen sent an urgent message to Viscount's Keep to request an additional meeting with Bran on the morrow.  Bran sent back,

> _I do **not** wish to officiate your wedding, Cullen. You are a perpetual irritant, and your lover is an imbecile; I have no doubt that the reason your request comes at the last bloody minute is because he's spent a month avoiding the issue and stewing with indecision, most likely until you talked sense into him.  And I especially do not want that man _ breeding _, because between him and the Champion and my memory of their mother's stubbornness, it is clear that Amells are trouble; the city would doubtless be better-served to let the line die out._
> 
> _~~So find some other~~   ~~My seneschal informs me this is unwise~~   Very well, I agree to officiate your wedding.  Bring a ring and be here on sodding time; I'm busy._
> 
> _Bran_

     Carver looked up from this letter to see Cullen's wry look.  "I suppose we had better find a ring," he said.  "Bran seems likely to use any excuse to wriggle out of this."

     "Just one ring?"  Carver frowned, scratching at his head.  "Is that how weddings usually go?  I've mostly slept through the ones I had to attend, but there's two of us, and that doesn't seem fair."

     "Well, no, normally the wife takes the ring.  And generally there is a betrothal ring too, though I doubt we have time for that."  They were in Cullen's office again.  Cullen sat on the edge of his desk, where the return messenger had delivered the letter that afternoon.  When Carver handed Bran's letter back to him, he continued, "I would prefer two rings myself, but you read the letter; one is sufficient."

     Carver scowled.  "That's a pain in the arse.  All this is a pain in the arse.  Why can't we just _say_ we're hitched, and be done with it?"

     He thought Cullen might be trying to stifle a laugh, by the oddly tight expression on his face.  "Because that isn't how these things work, my knight.  There are _rules_.  But speaking of rule violations -- "  He drew a breath and stood, and Carver snapped to attention, recognizing Cullen's shift to formality.  They were both off duty, neither of them in uniform, but some things were just too ingrained.

     "Knight Captain Carver," Cullen said.  "I must officially censure you for your disregard of security protocols when you left the Gallows unescorted, putting yourself and many others at risk, and resulting in the unfortunate deaths of some thirty citizens and foreigners."

     "Who got what they deserved," Carver muttered under his breath.

     "Be that as it may."  Cullen's lips twitched, but he remained in formal stance.  "In light of your position as Knight Captain, I cannot allow this lapse to go unpunished.  I therefore sentence you to six months' probation, which if violated will result in your demotion.  And -- "  Cullen suddenly ducked his eyes, perhaps hiding a smile.  "I sentence you to meet with Viscount Bran for the next six months in my stead, to represent the Gallows in city matters."

     Carver flinched, horrified.  " _What_?  Cullen, you can't make me -- "

     "What was that, Knight Captain?  Surely I do not hear you being _insubordinate_."

     Carver shut up, but glared at him in mute betrayal.  Cullen uttered a little sigh.

     "Bran needs to know you, Carver.  You are more clever than he thinks -- granted, that means little, since he thinks so little of everyone.  But you are half the leadership of these Gallows -- and I think it fitting that since Bran is angry with _me_ , because of _you_ , then he may take that anger out on you directly.  Perhaps then you will think twice before nearly getting yourself killed again."

     "Ser," Carver said, resentfully.

     "Well, then.  You are dismissed."

     Carver relaxed, and manfully made the decision not to complain about his completely unjust punishment.  There were more important matters to discuss, anyway.  "You free now?  Got some time to go into the city?  -- With an escort," he added immediately, when Cullen lifted an eyebrow.

     "Perhaps.  Why?"

     "I need your help to search for something."  He blushed a little.  "'Cause I think I know where we can find a ring."

#

     Carver had expected the house to show signs of hasty evacuation -- food rotting in the larders, chamber pots unemptied, dead flowers in the vases.  Instead, someone had carefully and planfully shut the house down, draping sheets over the furniture, getting rid of the perishables, shuttering the windows.  The work of Bodahn and his boy, apparently, though Carver had gotten a letter from them since saying they were safely ensconced in the Empress' palace in Orlais.  He'd have to remember to write back and thank them.

     It felt wrong to search his mother's room -- like searching the room of a stranger.  Of course, most of it _was_ strange to him, since she'd had only the clothes on her back when they'd left Ferelden.  Garrett had bought most of what she owned in Kirkwall.  Still, it gave him an odd shiver to see again things he recognized, like some of her dresses and a necklace she'd had since at least his childhood.  It was good to see those old things, like seeing her again in a way... and at the same time, it reminded him that she was dead.  He had to keep moving, keep searching, and not linger too long on any one thing, or he would end up on the floor in a puddle.

     But he could not find what he sought, and had begun to despair -- thinking maybe she'd left it behind in Ferelden to be pawed over by darkspawn -- when Cullen called from where he was searching Garrett's room.  When Carver joined him there, Cullen turned and carefully opened his hands to display the small jewel-case he'd found in Garrett's desk.  In it, on a bed of velvet, lay a pair of rings:  simple gold bands, each set with an oval of polished white opal.  One had obviously been made for a woman, dainty and too small for either of them.  But Carver grinned and plucked out the man's ring.  "This is it.  Father's wedding band."

     "Unusual stone," said Cullen, peering at it in fascination.  "Almost iridescent."

     "Yeah.  He told me once that Mother said she didn't like diamonds.  He thought she just said that so he wouldn't beggar himself trying to buy one; they didn't even have rings 'til after they'd been married for a year.  But she told us -- after he was dead, I mean -- that she genuinely just wanted something different.  Something magical, she said, like him..."  And then Carver faltered, his throat tightening.  "He never knew this was what she really wanted."

     "Lovers keep many things from each other," Cullen said, looking him in the eye, "often in the misguided hope of saving the one they love from pain."

     Carver grimace-smiled.  "Are you ever gonna let me live that down?"

     "You've learned your lesson, I think."  Cullen smiled briefly at him.  "Or you will have, by the time Bran is done with you."

     "Inhumane, you are," Carver muttered.  Then he frowned at the ring.  "It's smaller than I remember..."  Troubled, he tried to put the ring on.  It wouldn't go past the first knuckle.  "Oh, _fuck_.  Why's it so sodding small?"

     "Your father was a mage, Carver.  He had no need to develop the hands of a warrior.  But perhaps..."  Cullen took the ring and with some concentration put it on his own left hand.  It slid on perfectly.  "Ah. Yes, I thought so."

     Carver winced.  Cullen's hands were better these days, but Carver did think they'd shrunken somewhat since his injuries at the hands of Inquisitors.  He could no longer hold a sword for long -- though he kept trying, and had improved greatly already -- and a shield was too much for him altogether, as it stressed the bones those bastards had all but crushed, leaving him hurting for hours after every attempt.  He'd had a Templar's hands once, broad and limber and strong, but no longer.

     "You may put away that mournful look," Cullen said, and when Carver flushed in guilt, Cullen smiled -- though with a hint of sadness.  "It is a comfort to find _some_ benefit to my infirmity, at least."

     "Should've let me kill Karras," Carver muttered for what felt like the hundredth time, staring at Cullen's hands and aching anew.  "I'd've made him pay for what he did to you."

     "And that is why I did it myself.  I would not have you become like him, in any way."  Cullen took Carver's clenched fist -- lightly at first, then with steadily-increasing strength as he concentrated on improving his grip.  "In any case, it is fitting that I should be the one to take the ring, yes?  If I am to marry into your family."

     It was Cullen's way of changing the subject, so Carver sighed and let him.  "Yeah.  I guess so.  Fuck if I know how this is supposed to work."  He blinked, then, as something occurred to him.  "What, does that make you Cullen Hawke now?"

     Cullen blinked, then laughed in surprise.  "I suppose it does."  He frowned a bit, as if the idea troubled him.  "Will people think that is why I did it, then?  To go from Chantry orphan to noble scion, or perhaps to ride the Champion's fame?" 

     "That's shit."  Carver scowled and used Cullen's hand to tug him closer for a kiss.  " _I'm_ the one marrying up.  From black sheep to respectable officer's spouse, right? Anyway, everybody already knows I've fucked my way into the captaincy." 

     Cullen laughed, the little furrow between his brows easing, and Carver thought, _Maker, I'm so fucking lucky_.

     "Hey," he said, and eyed the big bed behind Cullen.  It was covered with a drape and had no sheets, but it was there and looked damned comfortable.

     Cullen followed his gaze and lifted an eyebrow -- though he did not refuse, Carver noted, which made him grin.  "You would have us lie together in _your brother's bed_?"

     Ick.  That almost put Carver off, but...  "It's not his bed anymore.  It's a _family_ bed; generations of Amells have fucked themselves silly in it.  Now that you're joining the family..."  He stepped closer, warming -- and rising -- to the idea.  "Well, tradition ought to be respected, right?"

     Cullen laughed and licked his lips.  "It is the middle of the day, Carver.  We are in full armor -- "  Because that was the sensible thing to do when traveling outside the Gallows, even on their day off.  " -- and there is a company of men waiting outside, or have you forgotten?"  But he did not move away when Carver fingered the straps on his pauldrons.

     "C'mon, Cullen.  It'll be like, uh, like bringing me to the marriage bed, just, uh, early.  C'mon, give me a good buggering to celebrate our impending nup -- nupit -- "  He'd never known the word.  "Shit, whatever, you know.  Please?  In fact, I bet..."  He bent and fumbled at the nightstand beside the bed, guessing, and grinned as he got the drawer open to find a collection of bottles.  And -- feathers?  Attached to --  What the --  Appalled, he flinched.  "Oh, _for fuck's sake_ , Garrett, you kinky bastard, _really_?"

     Cullen looked too and burst out laughing.  "Do you begrudge your brother the same pleasures we enjoy?"

     "No, but I don't want to think about him _having_ that pleasure.  Maker's cock, I know half the people he's probably used those things on!  I'll never be able to look them in the eye again."

     Cullen shook his head, then gently pushed Carver back.  "And _that_ is a sign, I think.  We will lay proper claim to the Amell bed later -- _after_ the wedding.  With fresh sheets and a thorough cleaning, to ease your sudden attack of prudishness."

     "Fucking _yeah_ ," said Carver, rather less interested now.  But then, to his surprise, Cullen began unbuckling the straps of Carver's tassets.  "Uh?"

     "You have, I am afraid, intrigued me," Cullen said.  He stepped closer, eyes dark and full of mischief as his hand smoothed over the front of Carver's robes, then slipped within their folds.  Carver made another undignified sound as Cullen's hand found and cupped him through the fabric of his trousers.

     "I thought -- "  And then Cullen got Carver's pants open, and Carver's thoughts stuttered.  " _Shit_ , Cullen.  I thought... nnh, Maker, the bed..."

     "We need no bed," Cullen murmured, leaning in for a long and leisurely kiss while his hand worked.  Carver shuddered violently; Cullen's hand-exercises were definitely paying off.  And when Carver groaned, Cullen pulled away and regarded him thoughtfully.  "Yes.  This _is_ a fine room.  Such high ceilings.  I cannot help but wonder what the acoustics are like.  Don't you?"

     "I... ah..."  He couldn't think.  It felt too good.  "Wh- what?"

     "We should test them.  Make this place ours, from rafters to floorboards."  Cullen smiled and knelt, stroking Carver's robes aside.  "So put your mouth to use for me, will you?"  Then he opened his own mouth and set to work.

     And when Carver was done and shaking with aftershocks and had slumped against the very nightstand that held all his brother's nasty little toys, Cullen stood and planted his hands on the wall at either side of Carver's head.

     "You shall not escape me, Carver Hawke," he said, very softly into Carver's ear.  Carver could only shudder and whimper at the velvet stroke of his voice.  "This marriage is a mere formality; the ring is but a trinket.  But what is, and has been, between us -- _that_ is the promise, my sweet knight.  So long as that endures, not even the Maker may part us.  Do you understand?"

     "Y-yeah," Carver said, breathles.  "F-fucking _yeah_."

     Cullen shook his head, amused, and nuzzled his mouth.  "It makes no sense that I am so willing to upend my life for you.  Ah, but Maker, it seems so small a price to pay, for so great a reward."

     _Yeah_ , Carver thought dizzily.  _All that shit he just said_.

     Cullen pulled away to let Carver compose himself and don his armor again, and then they returned to the Gallows.

#

     The wedding took five minutes.  It was delayed by two hours, however, because Carver had forgotten that two witnesses were required -- or rather, he'd never known that in the first place.  How was he _supposed_ to know something like that?  It wasn't like he'd ever gotten married before, for fuck's sake.  Cullen, for his part, apologized to an already-testy Bran; apparently Cullen hadn't known it, either, which made Carver feel especially vindicated.

     That delay was so that Aveline could send for Donnic from his patrol -- which she did, though she chastised Carver for failing to invite them in the first place while they waited -- and Cullen could send for Varric Tethras.  Tethras arrived, much to Carver's shock, with another guest in tow:  Isabela, looking much the same as she had before she'd vanished with his brother, and beaming like a proud mother. 

     "Oh, puppy," she said, coming over to hug him, lushly.  "Love suits you.  And he's gorgeous; lies _so_ well from the back."  She then eyed Cullen so speculatively that Cullen blushed and Carver edged between them, because there was nothing quite worse than having a woman he'd fucked in the past eyeballing the guy he was fucking now.  She, thankfully, laughed and sidled off.

     After the formalities were done and the ring "thee wedded" and so on, the guards held a party down in their mess hall, which was a bit awkward as Carver knew only Donnic out of the whole lot.  Then Carver and Cullen took a carriage to the ferry -- stupid thing to do, would've been faster to walk, but Bran paid for a fancy one so they couldn't say no.  They arrived at the Gallows to find it lit up with mage-lights and strings of ribbon, and raucous with drums and fiddle-music.  The whole Gallows, shockingly, had turned itself out for an impromptu party.  Complete madhouse, and terrible for security; Cullen kept fretting that some assassin would slip his way in during the frivolity.  But he still drank when someone handed him a glass, and Carver still tongue-kissed him in full view of the whole courtyard while the mages and the Templars and even a few of the guards who'd tagged along cheered like wild mad things.  Like they'd never seen a more beautiful sight.  And that was that. 

     They spent that first night at the Gallows, where Cullen fucked him half senseless; the perfect way to vent all the past few days' tension.  The next morning Cullen went with him to the Amell Estate, to which Carver now held the title, delivered by Bran's messenger as a wedding gift. It was such a small and unobtrusive thing, just a little scroll of fancy script, to have caused them so much trouble.  At the estate Carver was surprised to find the house clean, all the sheets off the furniture; Cullen, it seemed, had sent a bunch of recruits over to make the place habitable again.  And there Cullen took him again in the Amell bed, this time being rather _comprehensive_ about it so that after the first hour Carver thought no more about it being his brother's bed.  Not even when they were done and curled together in exhaustion, and Carver belatedly realized Garrett had installed a mirror above the bed.  Sodding pervert git.

     But it _was_ hot, sort of, to be able to watch while Cullen -- well.  He'd take it down when Cullen noticed it.  If Cullen minded.

     There was still the matter of Carver's "issue" to settle, though thankfully they had five years to work that out, and Carver still faced all those fucking meetings with Bran.  He dreaded those almost as much as he'd dreaded telling Cullen he had to get married.  And also, they still had to stop the war and change Thedas.  Couldn't bring a child into the world when it was _this_ fucked-up.

     Still.

     Carver suspected he would never grow to _like_ the Amell estate.  It would always feel foreign to him, pretentious, too big, a bit embarrassing.  But as he stopped on the landing outside the bedroom and looked over the sitting room that seemed so stiff and empty, the thought came to him that maybe it would be better with a few children around to mess it up.  And a mabari, of course.  Maybe a couple; the house was certainly big enough.

     And when he turned to gaze into the master bedroom at Cullen curled and comfortable in that great heirloom bed, for a moment Carver had to stop and catch his breath and close his eyes against the feeling that welled up in him.  He wasn't sure what to call that feeling.  _Love_ seemed insufficient -- too brief, too cliche -- but he couldn't think of anything better.  He'd never been much good with words, anyway.

     But he did go into the room, and lie down behind Cullen and wrap himself around that lean tanned frame. Cullen murmured a sleepy greeting, and Carver said into his ear, "Should've done this ages ago."  It didn't really matter that Cullen was too muzzy with sleep to hear or understand him.  Carver just needed to say it, because it was true.

     Then he closed his eyes, relaxing in _his_ house and _his_ bed and the city that had become his home, with _his_ Cullen in his arms and a future that _he'd_ chosen unfolding before them.  _Thanks, Mother_ , he thought, as he drifted off at last.  _I guess maybe this'll be all right_.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, I recycled a lot of bits from the Deleted Scenes into the stuff I consider fanonical. This one was fun to write -- and a relief, after the misery of writing "Silence Part 1" -- but it felt too lighthearted and fluffy for what the boys needed, thus the scrapbin. Oh, and I totally stole Isabela's characterization from tanukiham. I only steal from the best!


End file.
